


Lacuna

by notkai



Category: Topp Dogg
Genre: Blood, Character Death, Child Sexual Abuse, Drug Use, Gender Ambiguity, M/M, Queer Characters, Read at Your Own Risk, Self Harm, Suicide, Weird Perspective, maybe triggering, seriously very dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 10:29:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9543815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notkai/pseuds/notkai
Summary: There's a lot Hansol doesn't remember.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lowkeyamen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowkeyamen/gifts).



> HOOOOO BOY THIS IS SAD literally just queer homeless hansol and his drug addict boyfriend tae with a bad ending that's it no spoilers

Hansol remembers meeting Taeyang better than he remembers most days.  
There’s a lot Hansol doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember when he got kicked out of the studio apartment he used to live in with his mom- maybe around when he was ten, maybe thirteen, he doesn’t really know. His life prior to that is full of gaps. His dad died when he was little, but he doesn’t remember how or when. Sometimes, after his dad’s death, he would bring his mom glasses of water when she puked up the tequila she had drunk the prior night. He didn’t know how old he was then, but he guessed old enough to be in elementary school. He never went to school, though, at least not often. His transcript was mostly unexcused absences.   
Eventually, his mom started dating again. A hundred generic male faces blur together in his mind before one sticks out, the one that must’ve stayed longer than a couple weeks. Hansol doesn’t remember when she started dating him, but he remembers getting slapped, having his hair tugged, squirming uncomfortably as his mom’s greasy boyfriend slipped his hand down the front of his pants. He remembers his mom crying with happiness when her boyfriend patched the hole in the ceiling that had been there ever since they had moving in, letting cold air and cold rain invade their apartment.   
A few months later, he began hearing hushed conversations between them. Snippets of the whispered arguments floated through the air and Hansol was able to pick up words and phrases- condom, can’t afford, stay, move elsewhere, child support, leave. His mom started throwing up in the mornings, but it wasn’t from tequila, and it wasn’t Hansol bringing her water, it was her boyfriend.   
Hansol’s mom didn’t care when the teacher sent Hansol home with a note saying that he’d kissed another boy on the playground. Boyfriend cared, though. Boyfriend told Hansol he wouldn’t let a faggot live in his house. His house. Weeks continue to pass and Boyfriend starts yelling at his mom when they have arguments. Boyfriend hits his mom. Her stomach swells along with her bruised face. Eventually, Boyfriend proposes and she accepts.   
Everything gets blurry after that. Hansol doesn’t remember when he became a guest in his own home, but eventually Boyfriend decided that he’d overstayed his welcome. His mom watched silently as Boyfriend shoved Hansol out of the apartment and slammed the door shut in his face. She didn’t open the door when she heard his cries. 

He met Taeyang in the winter. He remembers his first winter on the streets of Seoul, frozen from cold. An old man offered to keep him warm and made a necklace with his hands when Hansol tried to resist. He remembers trying to examine the bruises on his neck in a window reflection. He tried to wash himself with the frigid water that had collected from snow melting in a gasoline canister with a hole in its side. He hadn’t felt clean afterwards and hadn’t felt clean since.   
Taeyang had skin that was pale as the frosted windows of the high-end cafe they met in, smooth and clean, like paper before the poem. Hansol really had no business being in there, some skinny homeless kid with no money to spend. But it was cold out enough that his feet had gone numb and he was willing to risk being thrown out for a few minutes of warmth. The central heating washed over him and he closed his eyes, sighing a bit in gratitude and relief. When he opened his eyes, a boy with alabaster skin and regal eyes was gazing at him, sharply enough that Hansol felt cold again, like he’d stepped back out into the winter snow. But then the stranger smiled at him and the feeling disappeared.   
Hansol felt compelled to walk over to the two-person table Taeyang was sitting at alone, so he does and is rewarded with another straight-toothed smile from the stranger. He smiles hesitantly in response.  
“Cold out, isn’t it?” The stranger says. “I’m Taeyang.”  
“Yeah, it really is. I- I’m Hansol.”   
Hansol thinks this is the most he’s ever seen someone smile in such a short period of time. “Nice to meet you, Hansol.”  
They get to know each other, talking and sipping on drinks that Taeyang orders for them until the cafe closes. Hansol isn’t even upset about having to step back into the cold. It’s probably the best interaction he’s had in awhile, and it leaves him baffled. There’s so much he doesn’t know about Taeyang, about why he even felt drawn to the table in the first place. But the thought of the boy with the high cheekbones keeps him warm all night. 

Hansol began to frequent the cafe in hopes of seeing Taeyang again, sometimes coming up with a dollar or two to spend on a small coffee so that the staff wouldn’t become fed up with his presence. And it works. He and Taeyang grow closer and more comfortable, moving from strangers to acquaintances to maybe friends after a few weeks’ worth of not-so-coincidental visits. Eventually, Taeyang offers to let Hansol spend the night at his apartment.  
Hansol denies the offer, only because he’s too weary to go somewhere with someone he really doesn’t know too well. Taeyang doesn’t seem disappointed but Hansol notices the way his shoulders slump a little.  
By now, they had already begun sharing rather intimate details about their lives. Taeyang knew Hansol was homeless, loved to paint, never felt clean no matter how many times he washed. Taeyang was a bit slower to show off the darkest corners of his past, mostly because he had tamer subjects to share- his high school experience, his little brother, his irritating roommate who leaves half-drunk water bottles everywhere. Eventually, Taeyang’s nose starts to bleed in the middle of one of their conversations and that’s when Hansol learns that Taeyang is a crack addict.  
He got off lucky, really, with only a nervous heartbeat and nosebleeds as side effects. Hansol warns him that it’ll only get worse as Taeyang gets older, and he merely shrugs in response. The knowledge is like a noose around his neck. He’s indifferent to it.  
One afternoon, Taeyang is stirring his coffee and says, “You know, Hansol, I like you. A lot.”  
A blush tints Hansol’s cheeks and ears, and he smiles into his soup. “I like you too, Taeyang. I…I think I’ve liked you since I first met you, really.” Taeyang’s small chuckle only serves to darken Hansol’s blush.  
“Let’s go out somewhere proper for dinner one night, yeah? I want to treat you a bit.”  
“I don’t have anything nice to wear, Tae.”   
“That doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all.”  
Their relationship starts just like that, with a dinner date that initially made Hansol stressed- Taeyang was planning on taking him to a fairly high-end restaurant, and Hansol hadn’t bathed in about four days. But all his worries melted away when he saw Taeyang’s smile as he entered the restaurant. The glares of the waitstaff and the gentle classical music playing all faded into the background as he joined Taeyang.  
Even though Taeyang had the money to take Hansol to nicer places, they continued to spend most of their time at the cafe where they first met. There was something about the relaxed atmosphere and chatter of university students that kept drawing them both in. Hansol wondered how he would have met Taeyang, if he would have met Taeyang, if he hadn’t wandered into that cafe.   
Later that night, they go back to Taeyang’s apartment and find his roommate is gone. That’s the night when they first have sex, or rather, make love, because it’s sappy and romantic despite its passion. Moans and pet names intermix and form their own language as they fill the air, the bedframe knocks against the wall more than once but neither of them care. It’s the first time Hansol’s had someone else’s hands around him and wanted more; it’s the first time he’s felt truly desirable. He craves the feeling and begs for more. Taeyang is more than happy to supply. 

The months blur together and now Hansol is living with Taeyang. He remembers when Taeyang first offered to let Hansol move in with him, to have somewhere real and physical to call home. He accepted the offer, hesitantly, and hasn’t regretted it at all.   
He has gotten used to the way his eyes burn from the smoke of Taeyang’s cigarettes. It’s not irritation from the smoke, really, more of an emotional reaction. He presses Taeyang to smoke on the balcony and tries his best not to sob when he smokes inside.   
He’s learned that judgement is something that’s almost impossible to find within Taeyang. He didn’t bat an eye when he learned Hansol was homeless. He doesn’t give Hansol a strange look when the two are walking down the street, hand in hand, and Hansol stops to admire a dress on display in the window of a clothing stop, babbling about how beautiful the dress is and how sometimes, he wishes that he was born into a girl’s body. Taeyang assures him that he would look beautiful in it, and a week later he presents a gift to Hansol. It’s that same dress. It’s tight in the waist and loose in the chest, but Hansol loves it anyways.   
He’s also noticed that Taeyang has a knack for redirecting conversations away from himself, from his past. Hansol never really learns too much about him, but he’s able to piece together that Taeyang’s wealth is part inheritance, part selling drugs. Sometimes, he disappears for a couple days at a time. Hansol knows that he’s making a deal somewhere, some out-of-the-way rest stop where he’s agreed to meet a client who met him using God knows what means, but it still worries him. He worries that he’ll wake up and find only the bloodstained sheets next to him and not the man he’s come to love. 

Hansol’s never had someone to comfort him, never had someone to wrap an arm around his shoulders and ask what’s wrong. Taeyang is the first person, maybe since before his dad died, who’s cared for him like that. He pulls Hansol’s hands away from his face as he sobs in the early morning and pulls him into a hug, he lets Hansol hide in the curve of his neck.   
Hansol feels the tip of Taeyang’s nose press against his temple. His breath tickles the side of Hansol’s face as he asks, “What’s going on, baby?”   
Hansol can only shake his head as he chokes on another sob. His tongue feels thick and swollen, weighed down with years of frostbitten fingers and nights holding back tears. He cuddles into Taeyang’s touch and cries, cries until his eyes feel sore and raw, cries until he’s hiccuping, cries until the weight on his shoulders feels a little less crushing. Taeyang holds him the whole time, rubs his back and whispers sweet nothings to Hansol. He doesn’t complain as Hansol’s tears leave a wet patch on his shirt, and Hansol doesn’t complain when Taeyang’s blood begins trickling down his cheek. 

The first time Taeyang asks about the marks on Hansol’s wrists, Hansol really doesn’t know how to respond. He knows he has an unconscious habit of scratching at his skin and picking at his nails, but his wrists seem to have taken the brunt of the damage. The skin is speckled with faded purple scars, some more vivid than others, forming an abstract pattern that’s disrupted by newer scratches, ones that are still healing. Hansol tells Taeyang that it’s a nervous habit, something he does to cope with stress. He doesn’t tell Taeyang that some nights, it’s all he can do to keep from losing his mind completely. Scratch and bite at the insides of his wrists until the physical pain distracts a bit from the vortex inside his head. When Taeyang leaves, Hansol presses his scabbed wrists to his chest to keep from picking at them in his sleep; it doesn’t work and he wakes up with bloody fingers anyways.   
Taeyang nods, accepts Hansol’s explanation and doesn’t press for more. He presses a tender kiss to the damaged flesh and offers to bandage some of the deeper marks.   
Taeyang has his own scars that Hansol is burning to know about, risen white stripes across the insides of his forearm, deepening when they near the ditch of his elbow. He doesn’t share how he got them, and Hansol doesn’t ask, even if the curiosity is eating him alive. He wants to kiss them and tell Taeyang that he’s beautiful in the same way Taeyang does to him; he wants to reciprocate the care Taeyang shows him. But he keeps quiet and tries his best not to stare whenever Taeyang wears short sleeves.   
They’re both scarred, really, inside and out. Hansol knows there’s wounds that they’ll never show each other, ones that are still too raw to think about. But for now, they take care of each other. They try to, at least. 

A half-year has passed and Hansol honestly can’t remember the last time he’s been this happy. He’s laying in bed with Taeyang one night when he says, “I think you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Tae.”  
He doesn’t need to look at Taeyang to know that he’s smiling. “Really?”  
“Mhm.” Hansol sits up a little before continuing. “I mean, before I met you, I was literally living on the streets. I was completely alone, and I was miserable. And now- now I’m here, living with my boyfriend. A year ago, if someone had told me that one day I’d be spending my time with the guy I love, I would have laughed at them.” Hansol pauses, mind drifting a bit as he reminisces over the past few years of his life. It doesn’t even feel like that’s a part of him anymore, like being with Taeyang has finally given him the strength he needs to move on and start a new phase of his life. It almost feels surreal, knowing this dream of his has become a reality. “I love you, Tae. I really, really love you. And I’m so unbelievably glad that I met you.”   
Taeyang says nothing, prompting Hansol to look over at him. He can’t help but smile when he sees Taeyang’s eyes are glistening. “Oh my God, are you actually crying?” Hansol shakes his head and pulls Taeyang into a hug. “I can’t believe I’m in love with such a sap,” He murmurs teasingly, kissing the top of Taeyang’s head.  
“Shut up,” Taeyang mutters, but it’s muffled into Hansol’s collarbones and lacks any real venom. He sniffles and wriggles around a bit, shifting so that he’s more comfortable in Hansol’s arms. “I love you so much, Hansol. I love you more than words can possibly express.”   
Now, Hansol’s the one who’s fighting to keep the tears at bay. He tightens his grip on Taeyang and firmly kisses his forehead. “I love you too, baby. I love you too.” 

In hindsight, Hansol feels like it was silly of him to worry about Taeyang’s nosebleeds instead of what was actually happening inside of his ruined body. It’s not often that he gets to see the outwards manifestation of the hell that cocaine is wreaking upon Taeyang’s body, it’s not often that Taeyang is off his face around Hansol. He makes a conscious effort to be sober around Hansol, most of the time, at least. But not tonight. Tonight, there’s the metallic scent of a storm in the air and an unsettled feeling that sits deep in the pit of Hansol’s stomach. He would mention it to Taeyang, but he can tell from the glassy look in his eyes that Taeyang hasn’t entirely come down from his high, that he’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning to speak to his boyfriend and not the scarecrow that’s with him now.   
Hansol should have payed closer attention, he should have more in tune with Taeyang and with his body. But he wasn’t, and now he has to pay the price.   
Taeyang isn’t laying next to him when he wakes up, but there’s a considerable amount of blood staining his pillowcase and light pouring from the bathroom. With his mind fully awake and his body still half-asleep, Hansol stumbles out of bed and calls Taeyang’s name. No answer.   
In the bathroom, he finds Taeyang, or rather, Taeyang’s body. The dried blood that must have been draining from his mouth and nose cake his pale skin, flaking off when Hansol tries to shake Taeyang awake. It moistens a bit when Hansol begins sobbing and presses his cheek to Taeyang’s, taking on a viscous consistency and clinging to the side of Hansol’s face when he sits up.   
Hansol is young. He’s young and arguably has his whole life ahead of him, or at least most people would say he does. But in Hansol’s eyes, his whole life is laying right in front of him, cold and lifeless.   
He stands up and leaves the bathroom, leaves the apartment. He doesn’t bother to lock the door or turn any of the lights off. The brisk morning air sends shivers running down his spine, but he doesn’t care.  
It’s early enough that not many people are out, just a few joggers and dog walkers and panhandlers. The former two groups stare at Hansol as he walks, eyes locking onto the blood smeared on his cheek. The latter group gazes at him sympathetically for a moment before looking away.   
It’s early enough that there’s nobody who cares to stop him when he approaches a bridge that overlooks a wide river. The metal railing is cold and slippery and Hansol nearly falls off and cracks his head against the pavement, but he wouldn’t care. His life, his everything is currently bled out on the bathroom floor, so a split skull is the least of his concerns.   
He unsteadily climbs over the railing and pauses for a moment, letting the wind play with the ends of his hair. It reminds him of how Taeyang used to card his fingers through his hair before kissing his forehead.  
Hansol doesn’t remember a lot about his life.  
But he remembers how cold the water was. 

 

When one lives in a large city, they become accustomed to the harsher parts of reality that tend to present themselves more in a city than in suburbs. One becomes unphased when they hear of suicides or murders on the news. Death is so commonplace that only an outsider would do a double-take.  
Sangdo has been living in the city since he can remember. He knows about most of the crime cases that have happened, the child kidnappings and bomb threats.   
He reads an article on a body found, some college-age crack addict who was found in his apartment, dead and covered in blood. There’s a brief mention of a boyfriend, someone who neighbors say had been living with the boy for a year or so. A jogger testifies that they saw him heading to the bridge that same morning.   
Sangdo isn’t looking forward to taking his pup, Kenzo, for a walk. It seems like a better day to stay in, to shut the world out and pretend for a while that everything’s alright. But he clips the leash onto Kenzo’s collar regardless and goes outside.   
As he’s walking, he sees a team of rescue paramedics hauling a body out of the river. He tries his best to ignore it.


End file.
